


Taking it Slow

by Dawnwind



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Angst, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-10
Updated: 2012-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-18 08:05:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/558717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of the Bellamy/Jennings poisoning, Hutch follows Starsky to the Virgin Islands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking it Slow

_"We'll get there fast and then we'll take it slow. That's where I wanna go . . ."_

_Kokomo by the Beach Boys_

Hutch settled back into the seat, his knees bent tightly to fit into the narrow confines of what airline executives defined as adequate leg room, closing his eyes to block out the mandatory emergency instructions. The head flight attendant was droning on about buckling the seat belt tight and low across the abdomen, and Hutch took a deep breath, his cock twitching, thinking it was about to get some action. It was always this way with flight attendants. He'd begun to suspect it was some kind of Pavlovian response, which had to stop--as of right now. Not that his past dabblings with lovely ladies of the stewardii profession was anything to be ashamed of, but Hutch had a goal, and this was not the time--or the place--to be distracted.

"We'll be serving beverages shortly," the perky voice on the intercom said. "Please sit back, relax and enjoy your flight to the Virgin Islands."

Hutch nodded to himself, imagining the islands. He'd never been there, but judging from the brochures that Huggy had given him, the water was a stunning aquamarine--quite different from the gray-blue of the Pacific off the California coast, and the beaches serene and inviting. There would be magnificent sunsets, snorkeling, and maybe even marlin fishing--the makings of a perfect vacation, as long as he found the one thing he was looking for there — Starsky.

The rumble of the plane engines deepened as the huge bird took on speed, accelerating to make the leap into the sky. Then came that in-between sensation, when it seemed as if the plane couldn't quite break the bonds of gravity, and every passenger sat poised waiting for take-off. In those final seconds, Hutch always wondered if the knot that formed in his stomach every time he flew was because he'd taken his first plane ride at the age of 20 when he'd left Duluth for California, or was every passenger suddenly sure that man wasn't meant to fly?

The plane launched itself upward, the landing gear retracting with a thud, and Hutch relaxed. One hurdle passed — with only a few hundred more to jump over.

He was going to see Starsky. To have a serious talk with Starsky — and maybe some other things, too. He wasn't even sure Starsky wanted what he did, but in the aftermath of the debacle of Jennings' poisonous compound, with Starsky recovering far better than the doctors had any reason to expect, Hutch had come to a realization. The past few weeks, with Starsky's life in peril for 24 hours, then his health in serious jeopardy for four days after that, and the subsequent slow healing process, had been terrifying. He never wanted to live through anything like that again. Either he had to admit the feelings that had been building since December or break with Starsky completely, move to a different state and start over.

The first was fraught with peril, but the second was unimaginable.

He kept seeing those bright, indignant blue eyes, water droplets clinging to thick eyelashes like tiny diamonds and those wild dark curls plastered to Starsky's forehead after Hutch emptied a cup of water over his head. The strength and vigor that had propelled Starsky out of the chair, and the outrage at being caught in a bold-faced lie.

Except it hadn't entirely been a lie. Dobey's call to Starsky's doctor confirmed it. The medical experts in rare poisons who had been monitoring his case and the police department doctors had all agreed--Starsky should take another two weeks off, just to make sure there was no further damage to his organs. His liver had taken a hard hit from the complex compound of chemicals, as well as his kidneys. There was no way of telling whether the damage was permanent or not. Better to take more tests at regular intervals before exposing him to the rigors of detective work.

Which Starsky had apparently used as an invitation to take a nice vacation in the tropics--in, how had Huggy put it? St. Thomas, pleasure capital of the Caribbean, where all the New York secretaries went for tennis, scuba and marlin fishing.

_All the New York secretaries._

Therein lay the problem.

"Sir, may I offer you a beverage?" A sweet, Southern accent cooed in Hutch's ear and he opened his eyes to behold a pair of big sparkling browns framed by enough mascara for two hookers.

"Uh . . ." Hutch stammered, still half in his daydreams. Avoiding her inviting gaze, he scanned the contents of the cart. Liquid courage, that would do the trick. "Orange juice with vodka," he said quickly.

"Certainly." BrownEyes scooped ice cubes into a cup, and poured orange juice, all the while doing her best to look as coquettish as possible. "Don't I know you?" she asked.

"I don't think so." Hutch accepted the miniature bottle of Smirnoff's, looking at her face more carefully. "Wait, Molly . . . ?"

"Yes, that night with Molly, Kristina and me. You had a good looking friend. Dave something!" she declared with a wide smile. "Polack last name. We all went to some nightclub, and he danced with Kristina."

"I remember," Hutch agreed, the image of Starsky twisting and turning to the disco beat while multi-colored lights accented every curve of his ass was as clear as if it happened yesterday. The rest of the night was a blur. "You're Sandra?"

"Sindra," she corrected. "Everybody gets it wrong. My mama was tryin' to be original."

"She succeeded," Hutch said smoothly, pouring the alcohol into the juice. "Nice to see you again, Sindra."

"We've got a layover this evening on St. Thomas." Sindra moved the cart one row down but ignored the two-year-old who kicked the back of Hutch's seat while trying to reach for a Coke. "At the Hilton, if you're free."

"Not sure where I'm staying yet," Hutch hedged. Starsky was staying at the Sheraton, but Hutch hadn't booked a second room. Dangerous, he knew, but Starsky would never toss him out into the night, would he? "But it will be good to know there's a friendly face in the crowd." He held up his completed Screwdriver with a salute in her direction.

"Very friendly." Sindra smiled, her perky breasts and lower lip offering pleasures Hutch rarely passed by. She managed to fend off the two-year-old with a deft maneuver in the narrow aisle, and pass out peanuts at the same time, tossing Hutch two packets with a saucy wink.

Cocktails and peanuts, the dinner of champions. Hutch hadn't had much time to eat, what with scrambling around making arrangements after Starsky took off on the early flight to the islands. First he'd waylaid Huggy, demanding all the pertinent information about Starsky's trip and then made Huggy book the soonest flight to St. Thomas for him, without concern for the price. Put a dent into Hutch's retirement fund, but he didn't care. This was suddenly vitally important. He had to get there as fast as possible, strike while his resolve was hot. And possibly, while Starsky's defenses were down.

Huggy claimed he'd never known that Starsky's vacation was supposed to be a secret from 'Mr. America' and besides, didn't they always travel as a pair? The erstwhile travel agent was effusive in his praise for St. Thomas, handing over the necessary info on where Starsky was staying, and giving Hutch his travel agency discount on the plane tickets.

Expecting Dobey to be a hard sell, Hutch was bowled over when his boss gave him carte blanche for as much vacation as he needed. The "You're not much good around here without your partner, anyway," was delivered in a growl but the humor in those wily dark eyes was undisguiseable.

"Neither one of you have ever used up your vacation time in all the years I've been Captain here." Dobey had closed with, shooing him from his office with a gruff. "I've got work to do."

So, twelve hours after Starsky left LAX for his Virgin Island holiday, Hutch did the same, at one a.m. Eight and a half hours later, or after one dry chicken breast over wild rice, two more screwdrivers, a badly edited version of 'Car Wash' and very little sleep, Hutch landed in St. Thomas and hailed a cab for the Sheraton.

Paying the driver at the hotel entrance, Hutch was distracted with his goal so near at hand, and kept dropping his money on the ground under the cab. The Sheraton's doorman helped retrieve the bills before the ocean breeze tossed them willy-nilly into the street, handing the fare over to the amused driver with unruffled decorum.

"May I help you with your . . ." The doorman looked down at Hutch's single, fit-under-the-seat-in-front-of-you duffle with a raised eyebrow. "Your bag?"

"Thanks, but I'm just going up to visit a friend. Not checking in." Hutch handed over the last of his loose bills. "It--it's a surprise."

"Certainly," the doorman replied with the glimmer of a smile. It was easy to see that he was not one to tell tales of hotel patrons' exploits. Hutch would bet that if he were a suspect in the BCPD interrogation room, it would take some doing to pry any secrets out of him.

In the elevator, Hutch felt the first glimmers that this might be a bad idea. That Starsky wouldn't understand. Or worse yet, that Starsky would understand, but take it the wrong way.

He almost hit the bright red stop button to stall for time. Oh, for a time machine to go back and change what occurred--fix all the things that hadn't worked the first time. He could have stopped Joey from shooting Starsky in the Italian restaurant. Prevented Bellamy from ever plunging that needle into Starsky's arm. And in so doing, would he have stopped the feelings that washed over him? The emotions that pushed at him like waves tumbling to shore, unlocking something buried deeply inside?

He needed Starsky. Needed his funny, exasperating, compelling, complicated, goofy, astute partner alive, and by his side. He wanted him in other ways, too; much more confusing and alarming ways. But how did he bring up something like that?

The elevator doors slid open on his destination, and he was on the fourth floor of the Sheraton and only steps away from Starsky's room. If he didn't try to talk to Starsky, he'd never know, would he?

Hefting his bag as well as his resolve, Hutch marched down the carpeted corridor, passing potted palms and ashtrays filled with sand molded into the swirly S logo of the hotel. Seemed almost a shame for some patron to muss the design with their cigarette butt.

Room 426. The moment of truth. Raising his fist, Hutch rapped on the door.

For a moment, no sound. Had Starsky gone out? Partying the day away with some of those New York stewardesses? Then a faint groaning, and a distinct bump.

The door swung open, revealing a rumpled, sleepy-looking David Starsky wearing striped boxers and very little else. He gaped, and Hutch plastered on what he hoped was his most endearing smile.

"Hutch! What are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood and decided to drop by?" Hutch tried for a joke and failed miserably. Starsky had always said he couldn't tell a joke. Besides, Starsky's state of undress was suddenly very distracting. "You were asleep?" Looking closer at his partner's face, he could see that Starsky was paler than he'd expect for someone who should have been out cavorting on the beach in the mid-day sun. "You all right?"

"Jet lag," Starsky said shortly, standing aside to let Hutch into the room. "You followed me here?"

This wasn't going at all well. Hutch took a deep breath, his courage failing him. He dropped his duffle on the floor, surveying out the room. Nice place--Huggy must have given Starsky a discount; otherwise there was no way he could have afforded the well-appointed room with an ocean view, double beds and mini-bar. There was a large, ornately wrapped fruit basket on the console next to the TV and Starsky's luggage was unopened on the floor. On a cop's salary, both of them usually had to opt for the economy motel room. "I . . .I . . ."

"Spit it out, Hutch," Starsky said, with a hint of a grin on his face. "Missed me?"

"Yeah. Dobey told me I was worthless without a partner and to take some time off."

"So you followed me." Starsky walked over to the bar, opening the squat refrigerator. "You want something to drink?" He looked back over his shoulder, his back long and lean, vertebrae jutting up against the smooth skin, the bullet scar from December as visible as a bull's-eye.

Hutch swallowed, so very aware of Starsky's vulnerability. This was not the right time at all and it was exactly right, all mixed up together. He nodded, watching the play of muscles across Starsky's back as he scooped up two bottles and handed one over.

"I guess we know who's the valuable one in this partnership, huh?" Starsky clinked his bottle against Hutch's, his expression enigmatic.

"Don't give yourself a swelled head." Hutch took a drink, feeling the beer all the way down his throat to his stomach. Been too long since he ate the petrified chicken. "Dobey's just being kind because you were sick. Everybody knows I'm the brains."

"Who came to St. Thomas without tellin' his partner?" Starsky asked softly, gazing at him over his bottle before he took a drink, and Hutch realized belatedly that Starsky was drinking soda water not beer.

Hutch concentrated on the label of Red Stripe beer instead of Starsky's dark blue eyes, totally out of his element. What had he been thinking? It was a rash, spontaneous act to fly halfway around the world in pursuit of an idiotic impulse that probably had no basis in fact. Totally unlike his usual tendency to think out every action in advance. More like something Starsky would have done.

He took another drink of Red Stripe, dropping his gaze and taking in Starsky's appearance. He hadn't seen Starsky half-naked in a long time -- maybe since before the shooting in the winter, and Starsky was much thinner than the last time he'd paid any attention. His ribs were as prominent as his backbone had been, hard knobs of protruding where there had once been firm muscle. Had Starsky been hiding under the layers of winter clothing he wore to conceal his gun from casual eyes? A t-shirt, and a button down, with the leather jacket over the top had hidden what was probably more than a ten-pound weight loss.

"Starsky, you feeling all right?" Hutch asked pointedly.

Starsky blushed, suddenly busy unwrapping the cellophane from the fruit basket. He pulled the entire basket onto his lap, using the pineapple as a shield while selecting which piece of tropical fruit was the most delectable, and held out a banana. Laughing as if that was a mistake, Starsky tossed the banana over his shoulder onto the table and held out a small green furry sphere. "Don't know what this is, but you'd probably like it. Are you cold? 'Cause I'm cold."

"You're not wearing much," Hutch pointed out.

Starsky shoved the basket aside, and disappeared into the bathroom, emerging wearing a terry cloth robe with the swirly S logo on the breast pocket.

Hutch had never felt so off with Starsky, so completely out of sync. There was an awkward, painful silence, and he covered it by investigating the fruit basket more closely. Hard to eat a kiwi without removing the formidable peel first. Luckily, there was a small paring knife tucked into the colorful excelsior at the bottom, just under a grape leaf.

"What is that thing, anyway?" Starsky asked, perching on the bed he'd obviously been sleeping in.

"A kiwi, although why it would be in a fruit basket in St. Thomas is beyond me." Hutch sliced the succulent pale green fruit and held a piece out to Starsky. "It's from New Zealand originally."

"No thanks," Starsky made a face. "You going to tell me why you came?"

"I had vacation time coming." Hutch ate the fruit. "You made St. Thomas sound like paradise."

"It is. Did you see that view?" He got up, pulling the heavy curtains aside, revealing the magnificent landscape.

Sunshine dappled the translucent blue-green ocean with glittery sparkles. Beachgoers frolicked in the water, red, yellow and blue bikinis on the women like pretty flowers floating on the waves. Overhead there were two distant figures hanging from green and white striped hang-gliders, floating on the wind currents. It was exactly what Huggy's brochures had described. So why wasn't Starsky out there?

"Take it from me, the ocean's as warm as bathwater," Starsky chattered. "And there are . . .well, Kathy told me the fish could nibble on your toes, but I didn't want fish taking bites outta me, so . . .it was 75 degrees at 6 am, can you imagine that? Not that warm in BC, not in March..."

"Kathy?" Hutch asked, just to stop the babble. What was with the both of them? Like they had just met instead of old friends who usually had no trouble talking about anything. Except the one thing he'd come specifically for.

"You know, Kathy Marshall, the flight attendant? She was head stewardess on my flight," Starsky explained, letting the drapes fall back cover the window and plunging the room back into semi-gloom. "We got in just after midnight. After I checked in here, I went over to the Hilton, met Kathy and two others . . .I forget their names. Allison? Alice-Anne, that's it, and Mary-Anne. We had some drinks."

"That's why you're in bed at one in the afternoon?" Hutch asked, turning on a light.

"I couldn't sleep when we got here. I mean, c'mon, it was three hours earlier on California time and then, I just never got up today." He waved a hand beachward. "We did watch the sunrise, sort of."

"Sort of?" Hutch felt like he'd dropped into some Starsky-esque version of a Fellini film. Drunken stewardesses, fish nibbling toes and dawn in St. Thomas. Where were Sofia Loren and the dwarf?

"I was puking." Starsky shrugged. "The girls had a flight at noon, so I left them to get some sleep."

"What made you puke?"

"Just about everything?" Starsky raised his hands in defeat.

Hutch thought back to the last few weeks. How often had he seen Starsky eat much of anything? He obviously hadn't sampled any of the delights in the fruit basket since it was wrapped until Hutch showed up. Very un-Starsky like.

"Doctors said the poison messed up my digestion, and it'll just take some time for things to sort themselves out." Starsky took a small sip of his fizzy water and burped. "They think. If I'm careful, real basic stuff like meat and potatoes stay down. But Mai Tais, which is what the girls were having . . ."

"Didn't the doctors tell you not to drink at all?" Hutch pointed out, his protective impulses kicking in. Starsky never took proper care of himself. "Your liver."

"Yep. I wasn't thinking. Jet lag." He tapped his head with a rueful smile. "Which reminds me, probably supposed to take some meds about now. Seems like they're due every other hour."

"You had about eight bottles the other day." Hutch remembered picking them up from the squadroom floor and scanning the labels. When Starsky was first out of the hospital, Hutch had accompanied him to every doctor appointment and known every facet of his treatment, but once he'd gone back to work, he'd lost track. Which was how Starsky had easily hidden the planned trip to the islands.

"Enzymes, steroids, stuff to make me pee, stuff to keep food down, stuff to . . .uh . . ." Starsky pawed through a clutch bag filled to the overflowing with prescription medication bottles, finally selecting two. He popped the lids off and downed the pills with a swallow of water and a grimace.

Hutch wanted to ask what he was taking but the atmosphere was all wrong. They were so distant from one another. How could he blurt out what he'd come across a continent to say? This had to be approached in just the right manner. "So you spent the morning in the hotel room?"

"Pretty much, yeah." Starsky zipped the bag shut as if that could hide his medical status.

"I'm hungry, want to order something?" Hutch had to take the initiative here. Pretend that his visit wasn't anything out of the ordinary and that the second bed in the room had had his name on it from the very beginning. "Steak and eggs -- for your stomach's sake."

"With fries?" Starsky wheedled.

"You think you can handle them, iron guts?" Hutch said absently, picking up the binder next to the bedside phone. Everything was listed inside: island activities, shopping, night spots, and the hotel menu. He ignored the extravagant prices, only interested in some lunch, and maybe putting a few pounds back on Starsky's too-lean frame.

"I'm up to the challenge," Starsky boasted, and grinned broadly.

Involved in dialing the phone, Hutch was caught off-guard. Starsky's allure hit him square in the chest, squeezing his heart into a tight ball. God almighty.

"Room Service operator, can I help you?" A man asked on the phone, but Hutch couldn't speak.

"I . . ."

"Lemme to it," Starsky plucked the phone from Hutch's lax hand, giving him an exasperated shove. "Two steaks, medium rare, with scrambled eggs, a side of fries and a big pot of coffee for my friend. I'll have a glass of milk." He eyed Hutch, mouthing, "Anything else?"

"Fine," Hutch agreed dazedly. Far from being too cold, he was sweating in the air conditioned room.

"You look like you're the one with jet lag," Starsky observed. "Get any sleep on the plane?"

"Some," Hutch said warily. "And one of the flight attendants told me to head over to the Hilton for the nightlife."

"I guess they all stay there." Starsky heaved open his suitcase, taking out a pair of blue jeans and a black and yellow striped soccer jersey. He shucked the bathrobe, pulling the shirt over his head with a wiggle of his hips and sliding shoulders.

Hutch tried valiantly not to watch, but the performance was breathtaking. He'd have given it a full "10" for artistic merit alone.

"You want to go there tonight?" Starsky asked, putting on his jeans.

"No," Hutch said too quickly, wishing the food would come soon. He needed something to do, something to distract him from what was so close and so unobtainable. "Sightseeing--you haven't seen anything yet, so we can go together."

"Yeah." Starsky's face was tender and sweet, but still held a question underneath. Why had Hutch come? "See the sights, maybe a couple hours on the beach later. That'd be good." He nodded, grabbing up the glossy magazine labeled 'Where to go in St. Thomas'. "This'll be great. I'm glad you're here, Hutch."

"I missed you." Hutch wanted to snatch the words back the moment they were out of his mouth. Too sentimental. Starsky hadn't even been gone from Bay City for a full day before he'd followed him. How could he have missed him?

Starsky never even looked up from his perusal of the magazine, and Hutch almost missed his muffled, "Missed you, too, babe." He flipped two pages, and began reading in a louder voice. "St. Thomas was originally a Danish colony and historic Charlotte Amalie housed the government offices. Fort Christian is the oldest standing structure in the Virgin Islands, built from 1666 until 1680." He shook his head in amazement. "Guess they had labor problems, huh?"

Leaning back on the pillows of the bed, Hutch felt himself relaxing, listening to the sound of his best friend's voice. This was more like it: he and Starsky, hanging out, enjoying each other, not letting anything get in the way of their friendship. He dreaded that wanting something more would put a major stumbling block the status quo.

"Hey, Hutch!" Starsky exclaimed, pointing to the article he was reading. There was a drawing of a thickly bearded piratical sort with a gold earring in his left ear on the opposite page. "Blackbeard's Castle! The pirate Edward Teach, who was known as Blackbeard, spent time in Charlotte Amalie and may have watched out for pirate ships in the Fort Tybyrg tower, so it became known as Blackbeard's Castle."

"Starsk," Hutch interrupted urgently, wanting to get things out in the open, right from the start. If he had to get another room, he didn't want to get too settled into this one.

"We could go out on a sailboat, too. Lookit that!" Starsky held out the shiny picture of a pristine white boat out on the water, not a cloud in the endless blue sky.

"Starsky, I want to . . ." Hutch started, but a knock on the door stopped him.

"Room service!"

"I'll get it." Starsky let the white coated waiter in.

The man carried a huge tray groaning with food and Hutch wondered how in the heck he was going to eat all that with the enormous boulder taking up residence in his throat. He was a coward, that was the truth.

"Hutch!" Starsky called, breaking into his reverie. "You got some cash on you? I guess I used all mine on the girls."

"Nothing small." Hutch held up a ten and the waiter grabbed it before he could pull his hand back.

"Thank you mightily, sir!" The man, who could have been one of Huggy's cousins, the resemblance was so strong, whistled merrily as he closed the door behind him.

"I'm going to need to get some money at a bank," Hutch grumped.

"Hey," Starsky said in that way of his. Hutch heard the echo of the gentling tone from those first harrowing hours after Starsky's diagnosis when all he wanted was to smash through the paperwork and find the bastard who did this, and Starsky had been the one with composure and strength. "We're on vacation."

They ate. The food was great but Hutch found himself watching Starsky closely for signs of stomach upset during the entire meal. Starsky did eat judiciously, not finishing his steak or his French fries, although Hutch helped him with the latter. He took note of the pills Starsky swallowed at the end, too. That scared him the most. Had Starsky been irreparably damaged by the poison? Was there something more they could hang on Professor Jennings' head?

"You ready to go?" Starsky asked cheerfully when they'd left the remains of the meal tucked neatly under silver domes just outside the hotel room door. "I'm getting itchy feet."

"There's a spray for that," Hutch deadpanned.

He followed Starsky out of the hotel and onto the bustling city street, content to just be with his friend. So much of the time he and Starsky were in some dangerous situation, dependent on one another for their very survival. That had never been more true than when Starsky saved his partner's life at the possible expense of his own when he shot Vic Bellamy on the tenement rooftop. They didn't spend enough time just appreciating each other. He was beginning to think that was as much as he was allowed to have of Starsky. How could he risk ruining their friendship?

The afternoon was perfect. They spent several hours following a self-guided walking tour around the tourist spots. Starsky had brought a camera and badgered Hutch into some goofy and sometimes downright humiliating pictures posing with pirate statues around Blackbeard's Castle and pretending to fall over the precipice of the fort. Hutch complained a great deal, but down deep, he didn't mind a bit.

A small cafe with outdoor seating beckoned them with advertisements of ice cream and cool drinks. Starsky plunked himself at an umbrella-shaded table, refusing to move another step.

"Sweet, cold and wet," Starsky demanded.

Hutch was about to toss back a lewd comment and stopped himself, ashamed of his reaction and appalled at his own restraint. They were guys! Guys said stuff without thinking--but he couldn't stop thinking about Starsky in a vastly different way, and it changed everything. "Ice cream?" he forced out, his throat dry as dust. "A fruit shake?" He pointed to the chalk written menu beside the door. "Says they have mango, guava and Passion fruit."

"I could use a little more passion in my life." Starsky ran a hand down his long torso in what Hutch could only see as a definite come-on. The question was, to whom? There wasn't a woman in sight. "Been a while, y'know?"

Hutch grabbed a glass of water off the waiter's tray even before the man had a chance to introduce himself. Downing half the contents in one go, Hutch felt more hydrated and even more confused. He should never have come. This was all a huge mistake on his part. Starsky flirted non-stop, that was his nature. The casual hip bumps, the batting eyelashes, and raunchy banter were all part of how the two of them communicated. Hutch was simply oversensitive to it now. He'd have to get over that quickly.

"Apparently my friend has lost his voice," Starsky said to the waiter. "Jet lag. He came all the way from California on the red-eye."

"Very common around here, yes," the waiter agreed, giving the table a wipe with his cloth. "May I take your order, then?"

"Passion fruit shakes for two," Starsky ordered. "And put some of those umbrellas in with the fruit stuck on the side of the glass, too."

"As it should be," the waiter intoned, going back inside.

"You coming down with something?" Starsky stuck his feet up on the empty chair, staring out at the jewel-colored ocean across the street as if the answer to the question weren't all that important to him.

Hutch knew different. When Starsky was this direct, he was starting to dig. He was as relentless as a bloodhound on the scent once he set his mind to something.

"Like you said, jet lag. And the sun is really strong here." Hutch pulled down the little straw hat Starsky had insisted he buy to protect his fair skin, and pushed his sunglasses more firmly up his nose. As a disguise, it hid nothing from Starsky's prying eyes.

"No, something's eating at you." Starsky laid a casual hand on Hutch's arm, still looking out to sea, so Hutch hoped he didn't see the reaction this caused. That friendly comfort sent an electric current straight up a wire to turn on every light on the whole island. Hutch could barely breathe.

"Starsk, I . . ." he began and the waiter returned with two bright pink confections topped with purple umbrellas and enough maraschino cherries and pineapple chunks to qualify as fruit salad.

"Why do I think we'd get laughed outta town drinking these in California?" Starsky asked, taking a long slow suck on the straw. "Man, this is good. Not just passion fruit; there's strawberries, and sherbet or something in there."

Hutch ducked his head over his own glass so he wouldn't have to watch the arch of Starsky's neck as he leaned back to swallow with a blissful expression, or the way his Adam's apple bobbed every time he took another drink. "Peaches," Hutch identified.

"Dear Mom." Starsky pretended to type on an invisible typewriter. "Hutch and me are in the islands, and we're eating healthy."

"I don't think this strictly qualifies as a health drink." Hutch drank more. It was damned good, though.

"Better than that crap you drink in the mornings full of desecrated livers and seaweed."

Starsky's malapropisms always made him laugh, which he secretly suspected was why Starsky mangled his words so thoroughly. "Starsk, I love you, but it's desiccate . . ." Hutch ground to a halt, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks. He'd blurted it right out, in front of Starsky and the whole of the Virgin Islands.

Amazingly, people continued to walk on the white sand beach as if nothing had happened. No earthquake split the ground in two, and Starsky didn't run screaming down the street away from him.

"Love you, too, babe, even if your taste buds must be atrophied after all that health food," Starsky said lightly, but his dark blue eyes probed a little too deeply. Did Hutch imagine a slight retreat? The way Starsky leaned back in his chair, one arm hanging loosely over the back so that no part of him touched Hutch any longer.

The perfect opportunity to state the truth. Hutch wished for another one of those Screwdrivers from the plane, and screwed up his courage. "No, Starsk. I think I love you."

Starsky took a long slow breath, tensing, all the teasing from a moment ago gone, even if his comment was at odds with his body language. "I didn't think you were a fan of The Partridge Family."

"Dammit," Hutch swore half to himself. "You think this is some kind of a joke?"

"No." Starsky looked at him gravely, still sitting back from the table. "I think — maybe — you're reacting to what's happened -- to me -- to us -- in a typical Hutchinson way by tryin' to protect me, and it's turned into something else in your mind. Something different."

"I've loved you for a lot longer than that." Hutch risked touching Starsky's arm just when he started to pick up his shake.

"Stop it, Hutch," Starsky commanded sharply, and jerked his hand away with so abruptly he nearly sent his cup over the edge of the table.

In that instant, Hutch knew Starsky felt it, too, somewhere deep inside, but refused to acknowledge the connection that forged them together. "Why?" he demanded. "You think I'm going to infect you with my disgusting desires?"

"No!" Starsky bolted up, his whole body in constant movement, but his face was pale, sweat beading his forehead. "This isn't the time or the place." He grabbed the back of the chair abruptly, right hand covering his mouth in the universal sign signaling that he was about to puke.

"Starsky?" Hutch felt his own stomach twist into a knot. Jennings' poison still had the power to control their lives this far from home. "Sit down until you get your bearings."

"I'm not on a ship," Starsky muttered from behind his hand, still on his feet, and the moment passed without an explosion. "Even if I'm still dizzy half the time. Think I've had enough passion . . .fruit for one day."

Hutch longed to massage those bowed shoulders, feel the life force coursing through his partner's body the way he had that awful March 3rd when nothing they did seemed to stem the flow of poison through Starsky's blood stream. "Need a bowl of Aunt Rose's Won Ton soup?"

Starsky laughed, still hunched over the chair, and Hutch could see the outline of his backbone through the yellow and black jersey, achingly sweet and fragile. Starsky was a street fighter. He usually kept his back to the wall, abdomen protected, senses alert for attack. Did it show how much he trusted Hutch that he could stand like that in a foreign city, sure that his partner had his back?

"Just as long as it's take-out from Hong Kong Princess down the street from her house." Starsky straightened, one hand to his belly, but calmer, more in control. "She didn't really have me fooled. I knew she really didn't make that soup."

"I thought you said her Won Ton was better than her chicken soup." Hutch tossed a few bucks on the table to cover the drinks, glad he'd been able to cash a check at the local bank.

"It does. When she buys it. The woman couldn't boil water successfully." Starsky shrugged, his natural good humor returning. "I could use a nap after climbing all over Charlotte Amalie. How about you?"

"You want me to get another room?" Hutch asked soberly.

"Nah." Starsky inclined his head toward their hotel down at the end of the main street. "We're both adults, we can control our manly urges." He looked over at Hutch for the first time in minutes. "At least I can."

Hutch felt the impact of those laser blues all over again. Was Starsky implying something he obviously wasn't ready to say yet?

He was confused. Starsky acted as if his declaration of love was repellant, but instead of pushing Hutch away, he was inviting him back to his room. Unwilling to destroy the equilibrium between them, he followed Starsky back down the street in silence.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Starsky went to sleep almost instantly after taking some combination of the pills to settle his stomach. Hutch lay quietly in the other bed, listening to his friend's low steady breathing, a rumbling snore on every inhalation. It was a weirdly soothing sound, far better than the rapid wheeziness Starsky had the first night after he was extubated in the hospital.

Unable to sleep, Hutch got up after an hour and padded quietly around the room in his bare feet, gathering up his clothes to take a shower. He'd been on the go since — when? It was so difficult to figure out hours with the time difference, but he hadn't slept well in a long time. Probably since that night when Starsky's call woke him at 4 am. He'd raced across town, so frightened that sleepiness was a distant memory, and found his partner sprawled on the floor clutching the phone, his legs still half on the bed, twisted in the sheets. Since then, he'd awakened at 4 am nearly every night, adrenaline-charged alertness at full bore. The only way to stop the heart-pounding fear was to see Starsky — an easy enough thing when he'd been in the hospital. Hutch had snuck in most mornings long before visiting hours just to see Starsky curled on his metal cot.

He turned on the shower, standing under the water, thinking. Was Starsky right? Had his own fear for his partner's safety convinced him that he was actually in love? How did he judge that kind of thing? What was love anyway?

He thought back to the early days when he'd been enamored of his wife Nancy, before recriminations and accusations had turned their hoped-for fairy tale marriage into a Grimm's cautionary fable about the dangers of young love. He'd waited to see her each day with trembling anticipation. Eager to simply spend time with her, he'd endured tedious shopping expeditions and tea time at the Ritz with Nancy's mother, all for the payoff of long, heavenly afternoons wrapped in the spell of her hair, her scent, her laugh and her body. He'd loved every minute of those early days, but their personalities had grown apart over time and the marriage had failed.

So how different was it now with Starsky? Not very, really. He'd watched many a Godzilla movie just to be with Starsky, knocking back a few beers and goofing off. He'd gone shopping for cars, for God's sake, just over a year earlier, to help Starsky buy that parade float in the guise of a Torino, and he'd even agreed, against his better judgment, to go out on a rainy night in December for Italian food at 11 pm�and look how that had turned out. All of it made him want to spend even more time with his partner — his big, male partner.

 _Love_ \-- what had Starsky once teased him about? -- _pinches the capillaries._

Deprived the brain of enough oxygen to think straight, that's what it did. Simply a chemical reaction that made his pulse race whenever he was near enough to Starsky to touch him, smell him, wrap himself in that muscular body.

So what did he do about these overwhelming feelings? Just wait to see if they went away, as they'd done over time — and a tumultuous marriage — with Nancy? Thing was, he didn't see his love for Starsky going away. He'd already known Starsky longer than he'd known Nancy, and that included the year and a half they'd dated and the three years they'd been married. He knew Starsky inside-out, upside-down and backwards, and still wanted to be with him.

So what to do?

The water had grown chilly by the time Hutch stepped out and toweled off. He pulled on a clean pair of boxers and a lightweight rayon shirt that Starsky had given him for his last birthday. He'd never found a reason to wear the shirt with its subtle print of green ferns on a slightly darker green background in Bay City, but it seemed like the perfect attire for a nice dinner in St. Thomas.

Pulling on his slacks, he knew what to do. He'd romance Starsky, like any other intended — well, in the past it had always been women he'd wooed. Hutch had never been one to dismiss the friendly advance of another man, although he'd never acted on those impulses before. There was always a first time, and with Starsky, the flirty little asides, the glances and slight touch of the thigh in the booth at some diner would all be completely natural. That's what they did together. It's what came afterwards that would be different.

Standing in the doorway of the bathroom, Hutch indulged his whims, looking over his partner's body as a lover would. There was no denying that Starsky was a handsome man with his long-lashed eyes, wild curls and slender swivel hips. How would those lips feel against his own? Like Nancy's? Or simply like Starsky, only more so? His friend turned into his lover, with all the companionship they already had plus the delights of the bedroom.

"Hey." Starsky blinked at him sleepily, sitting up against the pillows. "What you looking at?"

"You," Hutch admitted.

Starsky scowled at the reply, but didn't look at that unhappy. "Well, you can stop it. I gotta get cleaned up. What time is it anyway?"

He'd left his pocket watch on the bathroom counter when he'd showered. Hutch ducked back to pick it up, never wondering why Starsky hadn't just turned and checked the lighted hotel alarm clock sitting between the two beds. This was just one of those things they did. "After seven-thirty. Actually, almost eight."

Starsky scratched his groin, getting out of the bed with a noise halfway between a grunt and a groan.

Hutch nearly groaned himself when his groin took notice of the attention Starsky's was getting and demanded some of the same. He didn't oblige.

"You want room service again, or to go out?" Starsky asked, shuffling to the bathroom.

"Go out," Hutch said with finality. Somewhere quiet with a table in a dark corner lit with a single candle.

"You want to catch up with the girls at the Hilton?" Starsky called out just before the toilet flushed.

"No."

"Me neither." Starsky stuck his head out, curls going every which way like the urchin that he must have been as a child. "How 'bout the place on the roof? Hear it's got a great view."

The only view Hutch cared about was right in front of him, but he nodded, pulling the thick binder of tourist attractions and restaurant listings in front of him to hide the evidence tenting his pants.

Starsky looked down with a smirk, the meaning behind the movement not lost on him, and waggled his fingers at Hutch. "Make reservations. I'm going to take a shower."

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The place was everything Hutch had hoped it would be. Huge windows along one side provided incredible vistas of the dark beach. The moon made silver streaks across the inky black ocean, stars reflecting in the water like jewels dropped carelessly across a velvet cloth.

The dignified maitre d' with a thin mustache like Errol Flynn showed them to a table tucked into an intimate corner away from the noise of the bar and entry area. A wooden folding screen, intricately carved with tropical flowers and palms, shielded their table and two others from casual view, and luckily, the two others were both empty.

Arriving just as the maitre d' stepped away, a buxom cocktail waitress wearing a sarong printed with pink orchids and palms gave them a come-hither smile. "I'm Maritzia, care to order a drink tonight, gentlemen?"

Starsky, apparently rising to the occasion, ordered Long Island Tea instead of his usual beer. 

Hutch started to say something about livers and alcohol but didn't. He wasn't Starsky's keeper. Instead, he said, "A Screwdriver." Probably a good idea to stick with the one thing that had worked so far this trip.

Watching Maritzia sway off on her spike heels, Hutch was again amazed that he wasn't the slightest bit interested. Once upon a time he would have been right there, competing with Starsky for her phone number, or simply a chance to dazzle her with his charm and wit. Was this whole interest in men permanent or was it because the man was Starsky?

Settling his napkin on his knee, Hutch knew the answer without even pondering the question for a single second. It was Starsky. Starsky was whom he cared about.

_Whom he loved._

He took a drink from his water glass and put it down again, unaccountably nervous even though he and Starsky ate together nearly every day, including their days off. This was just like any other meal.

Except that Starsky had never glowed like a courtier in a Flemish painting before. He'd never looked so radiant in candlelight. Or maybe it was that Hutch had never noticed how the flames reflected in the dark sapphire of his eyes, turning blue into something unworldly. He'd never paid so much attention to the way Starsky leaned against his hand, his pinkie almost but not quite between his lips, the forefinger lying just beside his eye, brushing against the mole on his cheek as he read over the menu.

Suddenly, Hutch wished with all his being that he could lightly stroke that mole, press his lips delicately against Starsky's and feel their breath mingling.

" . . .you decided?" A waiter asked, pencil poised over his order pad.

"Huh?" Hutch was beginning to hate waiters who always seemed to be interrupting just when things were getting interesting.

Without previously consulting him, Starsky ordered exactly the same thing Hutch had been planning to; prime rib, and a baked potato with sour cream. He almost laughed, but simply held up two fingers, adding, "The same for me, plus a tossed salad."

"Guess we're on the same wave length tonight," Starsky observed and sipped from his drink.

"You're coming in loud and clear, partner," Hutch said boldly, throwing caution to the fates.

Starsky blushed. At least it looked that way in the semi-darkness, and moved his foot. Hutch felt the nudge of a leather shoe against his ankle for a moment before it went away. A simple shifting of position or an uncertain attempt at footsie? He slid his loafer forward, encountering Starsky's foot under the table and was pleasantly surprised to realize that Starsky had slipped off his shoe. Hutch allowed his foot to linger, grazing Starsky's ankle with a fleeting touch just as the waiter returned with a large bowl of lettuce and fixings.

Starsky watched Hutch over the waiter's arm with grave intensity, not saying a word as salad was tossed, seasonings added to the oil and vinegar, and pepper grated over the whole ensemble.

When the waiter gathered up his utensils, Hutch felt oddly abandoned, alone with his partner and the enormous salad, a meal in itself, big enough for two. He almost wondered if he'd imagined Starsky's tiny shiver when Hutch's foot brushed his ankle. Had he actually heard that soft groan of pleasure just before the waiter arrived?

"Want some salad?" Hutch asked, determined to keep up appearances. He was going to romance Starsky if it killed them both.

"Uh-- my stomach doesn't handle green stuff very well." Starsky made a face, picked up his drink, put his lips to the rim of the glass as if sipping and then put it down again. He picked up his napkin, started to tuck it into the neck of his dark blue silk shirt, looked over at Hutch and placed it in his lap. Next to be fiddled with was his fork. He picked it up, put it down, picked it up again, tapped it against the wide bellied water glass to hear the deep crystal tone and placed it neatly next to the knife again, finally drumming his fingers on the table.

"Am I making you nervous?" Hutch asked, the whole performance doing a remarkable job of relaxing him. He and Starsky always were at polar opposite ends of any spectrum, except those times they thought like one person in two bodies.

"No!" Starsky clutched his drink, taking a long swallow.

Taking a few bites of the crunchy lettuce, carrots and croutons, Hutch discovered his appetite and enjoyed the salad thoroughly. "You sure it's your dicey stomach or are you just using that as an excuse to get out of eating lettuce?" he teased, and held out a fork speared with a single green leaf and a wedge of tomato.

"Tomato looks pretty good, and I'm starving," Starsky said and closed his mouth over the forkful. He smiled, holding the tines of the fork in his teeth and chewed slowly before letting Hutch pull the fork free. "Can I have some of the croutons this time?"

Hutch could have drowned in that sweet, mischievous smile, and offered up another forkful. Starsky ate it quickly, his Adam's apple sliding up and down his neck in a way Hutch found utterly mesmerizing. Damn Starsky, he knew exactly what he was doing--and had turned the tables without Hutch ever catching on.

_Starsky was romancing him!_

Hutch chuckled. Now it was a competition. Starsky could never back down from a challenge, no matter how dangerous it might be. The question was, which one would make it to the finish line first, and did it really matter? If the ultimate goal was . . .

Hutch munched more of his lettuce, since Starsky reached over and appropriated all the other tomato wedges, considering what the goal actually was. Starsky admitting that he loved Hutch? Both of them in bed? All of the above?

_Any and everything._

A kiss would be a good start. Just after dinner. Call it dessert.

"Great view," Starsky said. "Too bad you've got your back to it. Turn your chair around so you can see the moon."

Turn his chair around and he'd be two feet closer to Starsky. There was a reason they usually sat on one side of a restaurant booth together. Hutch suddenly missed the warmth of Starsky's thigh when they were pressed together in a too-small padded bench, the way their elbows would jostle and bump when they ate.

"It's still warm this late in the evening. We should go for a walk on the beach," Hutch said as he pulled his chair around until he and Starsky were in their usual positions, nearly thigh to thigh.

"I do declare," Starsky said in a high-pitched Southern accent. "Mr. Butler, do you have ulterior motives in mind?"

"If that was supposed to be Scarlett O'Hara, go back to Camille," Hutch deadpanned.

"Anything you say, Schweetheart," Starsky drawled in his worst Bogey, and the meat and potatoes arrived.

What had seemed impossible and scary from his new perspective of wooing suitor became ordinary and fun as the meal progressed. Starsky was still Starsky, Hutch's best friend and partner, and they always found some subject to bat around. They enjoyed each other's company, but each time skin brushed skin or both turned to speak at the same time and laughed at the absolute synchronicity of it, Hutch felt his heart stutter a beat.

This was it. The way he'd felt with Vanessa, but better. He saw Starsky for everything that he was, flaws and all and still wanted to be there for the long haul. This was joy and wonderment and love.

"I'm stuffed." Starsky patted his absolutely flat abs, emitting a very undignified burp. That he'd only eaten half of what he might have, pre-Jennings compound, went unmentioned.

And he'd barely touched the Long Island Tea, but Hutch didn't care. If they were going to enter into any sort of sexual relationship, he wanted both of them going in with eyes wide open and aware.

"Starsk," Hutch started. "How about that walk down the beach? Maybe some midnight fishing?"

"Not going to catch anything that way, Hutchinson," Starsky said, and Maritzia was back at their table with that annoying ability to arrive at exactly the wrong time.

"May I interest you in a nightcap, gentlemen? Or maybe some dessert?" she asked coquettishly, reminding Hutch of the flirty flight attendant on the plane. Too obvious. "We have some marvelous specialty drinks. Would you like some Sex on the Beach?"

Caught in the act of drinking his water, Starsky choked, bursting out laughing and spraying Hutch with water. "No, honey," he smirked. "But I'd like a Fuzzy Navel--to go."

That single phrase nearly brought Hutch to his feet, his cock jolting upward like a bird dog on the scent. He was surprised that the flush that burned his skin didn't evaporate the water Starsky had sprayed like humidity in summer time. "Uh--can I get some of that sex?" he stammered. 

Starsky guffawed, kicking him under the table.

"Sure, as long as you're guests of the hotel, we put our drinks in plastic cups. Complimentary," Maritzia said smoothly. "You just keep your shirts on, it won't take five minutes."

"Sorry I got you all wet," Starsky dabbed at Hutch with his napkin, wiping moisture from his neck down to the opening of his shirt. "Maritzia's right, you may have to take this shirt off." He unbuttoned the top button to push the napkin down further, the edge just brushing over Hutch's nipple.

"Wait." Hutch caught hold of Starsky's wrist, forcing his hand away. "Before we go further, are you prepared for what might happen?"

Starsky dropped the napkin very deliberately over Hutch's erection, and jerked his hand free, very cool and remote. "You think I'm playin' you to get back for what you said this afternoon?"

"I don't know right now."

"I wouldn't do that," Starsky said tightly, staring straight back at him, almost defiant.

"Then I'm not sure I understand. I told you how I feel, and you acted like I was crazy. We take naps and suddenly, things are drastically different on your end." Hutch thought about pushing his chair back to give Starsky breathing room, but he didn't move. This was their way, knee to knee, literally inhabiting the same space. "So what gives?"

"I wasn't prepared when you first said it," Starsky hedged, fidgeting as if fighting the urge to flee. He didn't lean back away from Hutch this time, though. After a moment, he placed his hand flat on Hutch's chest, pushing gently until Hutch could feel his heart beating against the palm of Starsky's hand. "You're what pulls me through all this shit, Hutch, you gotta know that. I wouldn't be here if. . . "

"Same here," Hutch said and tugged Starsky's hand upward, kissing the palm as tenderly as if he were touching his lips to a butterfly's wing. "Nobody else would have hung on through all the drug withdrawals. You knew what to do."

"You kept going even after everybody said I shoulda been dead," Starsky said and cleared his throat, the emotion too powerful. "You said 'love' out loud and I was freaked, babe. Scared. What does that mean?"

"That I love you," Hutch said simply. "Like any man for a woman, only . . ."

"Yeah, dummy, I know you love me," Starsky said, with a quirk of a smile that would have had the power to reduce Hutch to a giggling fool if he hadn't felt so churned up inside. "But we're guys. What kinda life are we gonna have if we . . .do it?"

"Starsky, you're the one who usually jumps in with both feet. How do we know unless we try?"

"Because it's illegal," Starsky said seriously.

"Not in California. I don't know about St. Thomas."

"Sex on the Beach and one Fuzzy Navel!" Maritzia called out cheerfully, delivering the bright drinks to the table. "Funny that you both ordered something with peach Schnapps."

"My favorite drink, darlin'," Starsky winked at her, amazing Hutch with his ability to completely divorce himself from the previous conversation. "You ever get any Sex on the Beach?"

"I'm more of a Naked Lady girl, myself," Maritzia purred.

"Aw, well, there you see?" Starsky raised his hands in defeat. "No peach Schnapps; it would never work out between us."

"So sad." She pretended to wipe away a tear, teetering back to the bar on her heels.

"You never liked peach Schnapps before," Hutch said. The sexy drink was sweet, but light and fruity. Not something he'd have again, but it did do quite a number on his libido. Or maybe that was simply the way Starsky looked over at him, sultry and mysterious. An old friend who still had so many secrets to reveal.

"Not exactly your usual, either, Blondie." Starsky picked up his drink, tasting it. "Let's get out of here, take off our shoes and dig our toes into the sand."

Hutch would have followed him to the ends of the earth, but fortunately, the beach outside the hotel was so much closer.

Starsky was pensive, and Hutch let him be, riding the crest of Starsky's conflicting emotions with long practice. They left their shoes and drinks on the patio fronting the long sweep of the beach, walking slowly toward the true blackness that was the sea at night. A few other couples also tarried under the stars, but it was easy to stroll undisturbed.

"I love you," Starsky said low, his voice almost lost in the sound of the waves lapping over his feet.

"Is this out of obligation to me because . . ." Hutch hunched his shoulders, shoving his hands into his pockets so he wouldn't reach out to take Starsky into his arms. The sand was gritty under his feet, an irritant that kept him moving when he wanted to stand still. "I love you, but are we still on the same wave length?"

"Yes," Starsky kicked at a shell tumbling in the churning water. "I'm just not sure . . . what this involves. What . . ." He sighed, picking up the shell and skipping it out across the water. They both watched the blur of white until it disappeared into the void as if it had never been at all. "I never thought of myself -- like that."

"Like what?" Hutch asked, but he knew Starsky's mind almost as well as he knew his own. Starsky wasn't scared of them together, he was scared that it would change the two of them into different people.

"Hutch, give me a chance here," Starsky said, not quite pleading, but almost. "Just . . . walk, huh? Like we were back home. Remember that time we went to Doheny? Tried to surf?"

"I was no good," Hutch laughed, unable to take his eyes off Starsky; the way he walked, that insouciant, brash swagger combined with the soul of a streetwise poet. "Must have fallen into the waves about half a dozen times before I gave up . . ." He took a step, his foot hooking under a tangle of seaweed and would have gone down face first into the sand if Starsky hadn't grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him back up. Almost an instant replay of that moment coming down the steps at Bellamy's apartment, except Hutch was the one unable to walk.

"What are we going to do with you?" Starsky bemoaned with a smile in his voice, taking hold of Hutch's hand to steady him. "You can't go anywhere without tripping over the furniture."

Hutch felt stretched by a thin silver band across every possible emotion, anchored only by Starsky's hand in his. How could this be so utterly hard and yet indescribably wonderful at the same time? If Starsky said no, then what?

The thing was, he was certain Starsky wasn't about to say no. He was just taking it slow, being cautious — which was usually Hutch's style.

"C'mon, let's go sit down before you fall into the ocean and get bit by one of those fish. Could be killer fish nibbling everybody's toes, givin' them some kind of fish disease," Starsky chattered, towing Hutch back through the sand to the patio.

"There are no killer fish in the surf, Mushbrain."

"How do you know?" Starsky sprawled into one of the chaise lounges, one knee up and the other hanging over the side, and placed his drink on his chest where the straw was easily within reach. "Have you ever been to St. Thomas before? Could be something they don't like to advertise in those fancy brochures promising sun and snorkeling."

"Because the hotel would never get any repeat business," Hutch said logically, retrieving his drink and settling into the lounge next to Starsky's.

"Wait." Starsky took a sip from his straw with a grimace and held out his cup. "This is yours. I hate that cranberry mixed with the Schnapps."

"Where did you learn so much about cocktails?" Hutch switched drinks and took a long suck on his straw where Starsky's mouth had just been.

"Bartender." Starsky rubbed his belly as if contemplating whether he wanted to risk finishing the drink, but dispensed with his straw and downed half his drink in one swallow.

_Who needed the liquid courage now?_

"When were you a bartender?" Hutch thought he'd known every one of Starsky's long litany of part time jobs before the Academy.

"One overly long summer in New York. After comin' back from seein' the world on the Army's nickel and one tour of boring duty guarding the damned Berlin Wall against escapees, I stayed with my ma and worked in a bar uptown." Starsky lay back, folding his arms under his head. "I didn't tell you about that one?"

"Weren't you a cab driver?"

"That was after," Starsky explained. "Well, and before. I always fell back on driving a hack. Mostly 'cause I was no good at mixing drinks." He chuckled. "Always getting those Naked Ladies and Mad Cows confused, pouring the Kahlua into one and the brandy into the other."

"That would make a naked lady mad," Hutch said dryly, smiling to himself. He could stay here all night, under the stars, close to Starsky.

"Maritzia must not know much about drinks, either," Starsky poured the last of his Navel into the large potted fern behind him. "Cause you can make a Naked Lady with Peach Schnapps, or Apricot brandy."

"Yeah?" Hutch looked up, finding Cassiopeia and Orion in the constellations to avoid watching Starsky's every movement. Should he be worried that Starsky was practically tee-totaling, that his energy level was sub-par, or simply rejoice that they were together, here, in one of the most romantic settings in the world?

"And I coulda had a Hairy Navel, 'stead of a Fuzzy one," Starsky went on conversationally. "But I don't like vodka so much, and yours ain't hairy."

"My navel?" Hutch sat up, starring at Starsky in surprise.

"Y'know, there's a drink called Kiss-in-the-Dark," Starsky said quite casually, peering down into his empty cup as if he hadn't made a suggestion that took Hutch's breath away. "Really sweet, with cherry brandy." He turned his head, and Hutch had anticipated the move, turning his head at the exact right moment so that their lips met, positioned perfectly for a kiss.

Starsky tasted nothing like cherry brandy, but a little like peach Schnapps and a lot like Hutch had imagined. All Starsky, and all new. His lips were soft and yielding for a moment and then, as if Starsky had belatedly realized what was going on, harder and more forceful, taking over the kiss with a passion that was very much in character.

"Wow," Hutch said against Starsky's cheek. "Gee, Beaver, I didn't think you were ready to make the big change over."

Starsky ducked his head, his curls tickling Hutch's temple. "Jumping in with both feet. Like you said, gotta try it to see if I'd like it."

"Did you?"

"Like it?" Starsky kissed the curve of Hutch's jaw. "Yeah."

"Think we could get a room in a swanky place like this?" Hutch said lightly, hand resting lightly on Starsky's hip.

"Yeah, I got an in." Starsky grinned, and Hutch could feel the curve of his lips against his skin. Bliss. "Got a friend who snuck into this guy's room, said we could use the bed."

"Sounds good to me." Hutch kissed the mole to the right of Starsky's eye just like he'd wanted to do all day. "You all right with this?"

"Not sure about any of it." Starsky shrugged, but didn't pull away. "Not sure what I should be thinking about myself and what this means, but you're you. My Hutch."

"I like the sound of that." Hutch stood, tugging Starsky up with him. "Can I call you some silly romantic name?"

"You already called me Beaver, Wally."

"Not Wally, Eddie Haskell," Hutch corrected, light-hearted. They bumped hips going through the door and nearly had a finger war over who was going to press the button for the elevator. "Wally and Beaver were brothers."

"Hey." Starsky waited until the elevator doors had closed and risked another kiss on the way up to the fourth floor. "I thought you said your mom didn't let you watch TV when you were a kid."

"We didn't even have one, but the neighbors did." Hutch kissed him back, banking the raging fire inside him. If the anticipation was this good, he couldn't wait for the main event. The elevator stopped smoothly, doors sliding open onto the fourth floor.

Starsky dropped the keys on the thickly carpeted hall and when Hutch picked them up, he saw that Starsky's hands were shaking. "Starsk, we don't have to do anything that . . ." he started.

"Oh, God, Hutch, open the damn door," Starsky snarled, his body as tense as a sail in the wind. "I don't know what I'm gonna tell my ma." He shoved his way through once the door was unlocked and began unbuttoning his shirt so quickly he wasn't getting the buttons entirely through the holes. "But--I want to . . . This is you, and me, and we need

to . . ."

"Yeah." Hutch took him in his arms, feeling Starsky's trembling match his own. "Just slow down, take it easy." Starsky hiccupped, his heart pounding so hard Hutch could see the tiny throb of the artery in his neck. "Let me do this." He guided Starsky onto the bed and unbuttoned the silk shirt as if it were a costly antique. No, more like the outer wrappings protecting a precious object d'art.

"You're beautiful," he whispered when the silk fell easily off Starsky's shoulders, baring his chest. Hutch cupped Starsky's shoulders, feeling the rough edge of the bullet scar on his back. Just another reminder of how fragile their lives were and how important it was to cement their love in a solid, lasting way.

"You must say that to all the . . ." Starsky grunted in surprise when Hutch ended his chatter with a kiss.

"Stop talking." Hutch head butted him gently, and slid his hands down to Starsky's belt. Starsky was amazingly docile, allowing Hutch to strip off his black pants, but when Hutch went to pull down the bright red and white striped boxers underneath, Starsky stopped him.

"Now you. I want to see you." Starsky watched silently as Hutch undressed, panting slightly.

Hutch found himself doing everything very slowly to prolong the hungry look in Starsky's eyes. Starsky wanted him!

When he was naked, he was overcome with a sudden bout of modesty and grabbed at the covers of the bed he'd slept in earlier that afternoon.

"Hutch," Starsky's voice caught, and he exhaled long and ragged, as if he'd only learned to breathe and was still getting the hang of it. He dropped his shorts on the carpet beside the bed. "Just you and me, alone. We got nothing to hide."

"Now you're the one with all the confidence."

"You're beautiful," Starsky said and there was awe and wonder in his face when he held his arms out to his partner. "I don't know what to do next."

"What feels right." Hutch settled down on the mauve bedspread next to Starsky, their arms around each other.

Starsky chuffed a laugh. "None of this feels right. It's so — different. I love you. It's what . . . I know in my heart. It's you and me, and together we're invincible."

"Then, what feels good." Hutch risked touching the thick cock between Starsky's legs. It leapt into his hand, the tip quivering. Starsky pulled in a jagged breath, catching his bottom lip between his teeth.

"Good," he managed, and thrust forward.

Hutch stroked slowly at first, but could easily see that something wasn't right. Starsky wanted it faster, and harder, and he obliged eagerly. It was odd to be holding someone else's dick, odd to go from top to bottom from a different angle, but he quickly got the hang of it, feeling Starsky's erection blossom under his touch.

"Down, lie down," Starsky chanted, and they squirmed and kicked until they were lying parallel on the turned down sheets, and Starsky could take Hutch in hand, mimicking the moves Hutch was making.

Now it was perfect, their bodies moving in symmetry, bodies mirroring each other like the positive and negative images of a photograph. One dark and one light. Skin to skin, they flew up to the stars and danced, finding solace and strength and power in love.

Hutch came first, his sac tightening, body tingling and floaty when he orgasmed, feeling millions of twinkling lights sparking across the surface of his skin. Starsky laughed out loud, shouting in triumph as he climaxed explosively, spraying Hutch for the second time that day.

Hutch didn't mind in the least. He held his Starsky tightly, feeling the thick pelt of chest hair against his own nearly hairless one, falling into a doze.

"Hey," Starsky said quietly, curled into Hutch's body as if he were made specifically to fit just there. "How many days did Dobey give you off?"

"Same as you, two weeks," Hutch murmured sleepily, burrowing into the fluffy pillow.

"'Cause, I think I'll need that long to get used to this." Starsky's breath made little puffs against Hutch's breastbone.

"Takes a lot of practice," Hutch agreed. "Think we should order room service?"

"Every single day," Starsky vowed. "As long as we don't leave this bed."

FIN


End file.
